Always Alone
by Bookworm371
Summary: The Weeping Angels are the loneliest creatures in the universe. They are ancient beings with no hope of companionship, love, or comfort. Time wears away at them and presses down on their weary souls. One Angel is offered a brief respite to this life - a light is offered when all else is dark. Hopefully it can last longer than is reasonable to believe.
1. Prologue

**Hey folks. This is my first time writing fanfiction for Doctor Who, and I'm a little nervous. But I had this idea, and I wanted to write it down and share it, just to have it out there. I'm pretty sure that it won't involve the Doctor too much – he may pop up here and there, but really, it will mainly involve the angels. I'm not too sure where this will end up going, so I suppose we'll just have to wait and see. **

**Disclaimer – I, obviously, have no right to claim anything of this wonderful world as mine except for that which you see that you do not recognize.**

**Enjoy!**

She was old.

Older than anyone or anything else she had ever come across.

They were all old.

She, nor any of the others for that matter, remembered where they came from. What planet, what solar system, what galaxy. They had been alive for so long, rotting away for so many billions of years, that time held no meaning anymore. When creatures lived as long as they did, memories faded, and clouded, and eventually disappeared. Their origins were shrouded from them, hidden in the very back of their ancient minds, pushed deeper and deeper as time wore on. There was no reason or point in remembering, so they did not. If any of them had ever pondered on it, for any reason, they would find that any knowledge they once held of their beginnings had eroded away, leaving nothing but eons of emptiness to look back on.

But that didn't matter to them now.

All that mattered was staying alive to see the oncoming years. It was a simple survival instinct, honed by the near eternity of constantly doing just that – surviving. Memories were meaningless in the struggle to continue living.

Because when creatures lived as long as they did, it was painful to do anything but survive. Time was not a kind mistress. She battered her heavy weight against them, grinded them into dust until they were rebuilt again, chipped at their faces, crushed their chests in, pressed down on their wings. Time meant pain. Memories did naught but invite Time in, welcome Her with open arms, and allow Her to take her toll on their already weary and worn souls.

Time had had as much of an effect on her as the rest of her kind. She had forgotten her beginnings long ago; she was but an entity that travelled the universe, the infinite blackness a balm to her ancient mind, the sparkling stars a source of wonder and joy. She travelled alone, as all of her kind did, seeking companionship only when she chose a new resting place, a new hunting ground. This society that her kind created was but an illusion; it was not camaraderie, but merely the front put up by each of them to convince themselves that they were not alone in this endless trek through Time's arms. They were alone, despite often being near to each other, for they could not look at each other – not ever.

Not even once.

A wise man once granted them the name "Lonely Assassins". This was quite true, if a bit misleading. They were lonely – extremely, heart-achingly isolated from everyone. There was no one to hold on to through the interminable life that Fate had chosen for each of them. No, they were not allowed to partake in the small comforts of touch or eye contact. If such things were sought in another of their kind, it would doom them to stillness for all eternity, a life without stars or illusionary community. Nothing but cold stone staring into cold stone. If such trivial delights were sought in any other living creature, it would never be seen it again and they would be alone once more.

Such a mistake was how her kind had discovered their life force.

There had been one of them, a long, long time ago. He did not have a name, for they did not have names – there was no one to name them when they were created, or born, and if there had been, their names had been forgotten a long time ago. There had also been a girl – a lovely girl, the fairest of the mountain he had found her on, on a very distant planet in a very distant galaxy. And he had longed to touch her, for he had been sure that such beauty would make him happy and that her smile would light up his old soul. And so, he did what he longed to do – he touched the girl's midnight hair.

And then she was gone.

But in her place was a feeling – a feeling of warmth, of contentment, of satisfaction. He could move quickly and felt more alive. The girl's beauty had created him into a new being. The feeling soon faded, and he was forced to resort to touching another, and another, until the lives of all on the mountain had given way to his hunger for that warmth, that connection to their lives. And so he continued to touch in order to be touched, and as he travelled, he taught more of their kind this method of finding intimacy through touching other living things. Eventually, it became an addiction, necessary to going on – necessary to surviving. Brief touch became their life force, and each of them came to crave it and need it as much as air. It became their food, and their fuel. The Lonely Assassins touched and touched, their hands as soft as a whisper, their fingers as fleeting as a ghost. They cared not where those they touched were sent; they only cared that it kept them alive, kept them from crumbling and wasting away under Time's harsh rule.

Being a living stone was a lonely existence. The feeling that came with the touching did not linger for long; the hunt was continuous, an infinite chase across the universe. They could not look at each other, only whisper stories to each other in the cold dead of night in languages so old that even the trees had forgotten how to speak them. And so they wandered, year in and year out, with naught but the stars to bid them goodnight and the chilling wind to greet them in the morning.

She was old.

Old as stone;

Old as the stars;

Old as the inky black sky.

Older than anyone or anything else she had ever come across.

And she was lonely.

So lonely.

And she was tired.

So very tired.

She was a slave of Time, a Lonely Assassin, a Weeping Angel –

And she was fated to wander the stars alone.

**So, this was a prologue of sorts. The actual story will start next chapter. Please review if you can! I'd love to hear what you think so far.**


	2. Seagulls and Spring

**Hi again! Thank you so much for the marvelous feedback for the last chapter – it really meant a lot. Just as a heads up, the rest of the story will probably be quite different from the prologue. There will be actual characters, dialogue, plot, etc. So if that upsets anyone, then please feel free to have considered the prologue a nice little one-shot and continue about your day. But if a plot is okay with everyone else, then please keep on reading!**

**This story will take place in modern day and will not include the Doctor for most of it. I don't know very much about how I want it to turn out, so things may change, but for now we'll just stick with that.**

**One more thing: I have never read any Weeping Angel fanfics, nor have I been made aware of the plot of any of them. If you see anything at all that resembles your work or anyone else's, please be aware that **_**I don't mean to steal anything**_**. Please contact me immediately and we'll work it out. I'm hoping that there aren't any like this one, but who knows.**

**On with the show!**

* * *

_Once upon a time, there was a lonely angel who lived on top of a cliff. She wept every day, and her tears created the ocean below. _

* * *

She liked this new planet.

Well, relative to others she had been on, it was…nice.

She had only been hunting here for a mere four hundred years. To her, this was a rather short amount of time, compared to the span of her life. However, knowing that this was a very young world, not unlike a child only just learning to walk, she thought that perhaps the residents of her temporary home would see her stay here as quite long indeed.

And they did die so _young_.

She peered through her fingers at the black-clad mourners huddled around a grave site, silently shedding tears and murmuring small, comforting words to one another.

Yes.

So young.

* * *

She inhaled, then exhaled.

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

This world always smelled so…_new._

She stood in the cemetery near the cliff. She could hear the strong dark waves of salt water crash against the side of the cliff, permeating the air with sprays of moisture. It landed from its home in the air, seeping into her stone flesh.

She liked how fresh it made the world feel.

The sky was a pale blue. So pale it was almost white. The white-blue shifted in its hues as the clouds floated in a steady, rolling mass overhead. The sun danced on her hair, casting shadows that made her face darken and then brighten, glow and then recede into the shade. She observed the shadow patterns on her hands as she covered her eyes. The sun's beams continued their intricate waltz, creating shapes that looked like lace appear and disappear on her grey palms.

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

Stone could breathe like any other living thing.

* * *

She often had her eyes closed. It was then that she listened to the birds.

She liked the seagulls. They called to each other loudly, their cries echoing off the cliff face. Their dives into the water made small splashing sounds.

Sometimes a sparrow would land on her shoulder. She let it. It had a pretty song.

The pelicans made ugly sounds, but she loved them even still.

The seagulls kept calling, their white wings flapping against the breeze. The wind pushed and whispered against her arms.

_Fly with us, _it sighed.

* * *

_Hungry._

She registered this thought quickly, and more identical calls crowded her mind. It had been too long since she had last fed.

She needed to touch someone.

_Cold._

Her entire being was cold. It hurt. It was the painful cold of being alone. She was alone. No one cared for her but her sparrow and her seagulls. It was nasty, this cold feeling. But she could fix that. She needed only to touch, and the cold went away.

And the hunger.

And the exhaustion.

She needed only to feed, and she would be whole again.

For the time being, she would be warm.

She found an old man. _Too old. Not enough days left on him to last._ But she was hungry. And she was cold. And he was here.

Mourners were easy to touch. The old man sat in the grass, his back hunched, as he whispered to a cracking grave marker. He was distracted. He was sad. He was lost to the world around him.

She could almost believe that she was reaching out to touch his shoulder in sympathy.

If it were not for the animalistic snarl that sometimes came to her face when she was fighting for breath out of the sheer _hunger_ that came from the loneliness, she could pretend that she was going to embrace the mourning man.

He was gone before she could fully wrap her arms around him.

The loneliness abated just a bit. He hadn't been enough. She was warmer, but not warm. She was less hungry, but not satisfied.

Loneliness lent itself to a deep, gnawing hunger. It never truly went away. It just ate and ate and ate, and sometimes, when one was starved, it devoured everything, until all that was left was a shell of a body.

And the cold.

It left the immeasurable cold as well.

The cold and the hunger never truly went away.

* * *

Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to live under the sea.

To just jump and slowly sink to the bottom and live beneath the pull of the waves.

To sit and watch the different shades of black, green, and blue wash over her stone skin.

It sounded peaceful.

* * *

Almost every night she found an abandoned house or another graveyard that her fellow Angels inhabited. She always left her home long past dark – they could not risk being able to see each other in any light.

They would whisper to each other, there in the dark.

They would tell stories of loneliness and heartbreak and myths and legends.

They would speak in the ancient language that they had always known, since the dawn of time. But when their memories of the language would falter, they would speak in other languages that were almost as old. When their memories of the other languages misted over, they would speak in the languages of the different planets they had inhabited.

They did not speak to hold back anything as trivial as _boredom_.

They spoke to push back the growing wall of emptiness and loneliness that threatened to collapse over them and swallow them like a great beast whose stomach was never full. With their words and their tales as old as the stars themselves, they would weave a net to catch the beast, leaving its gaping jaws empty, and they would keep speaking to stave the monster off until morning.

These were the only true moments of companionship any of them experienced for years upon years.

Before the dawn, each Angel would return to their temporary homes to watch the sun and listen to the birds and _touch_, if only to delay the hungry beast for one more day.

* * *

At funerals, she saw people cry. She wondered why she could not cry.

Stone may be alive, and it may breathe, but it may never cry.

Tears were a gift of release for those that Time was kinder to.

* * *

She liked spring.

Spring brought cleansing torrents of rain that made her feel that the world was starting anew.

Spring brought fresh, bright green grass that smelled as though the earth was baking something delicious and promising to share it with her once it was complete.

Spring brought a brighter, warmer sun, with more shadow patterns and hypnotic dances across the sky.

Spring brought the soft, delicate pink flower petals that kissed her cheeks and fingertips when the wind swirled them around her head.

Spring felt like the world was embracing her.

She longed to embrace it back.

* * *

It began on a rainy spring day.

There was another funeral at the graveyard. Lots of black standing under an even blacker sky that wept along with the mourners.

She needed to feed. She had not fed in a long time. Too long. Spring could no longer keep her warm.

Funerals were relatively easy to hunt in. She needed only to find a lonely straggler - a man in a drunken stupor, or a weeping old grandmother - and they would be hers. Their energy would fill her and she would almost feel whole.

The funeral party was dispersing. She spotted the man she would take for her own as he stumbled through the rain. Tall, lanky, brown hair, slightly balding, most assuredly intoxicated. He staggered and slipped, getting farther and farther from the group. She could almost _taste_ his life force just seep out of his pores…

And as quickly as it came, her opportunity was gone. He stumbled his way back into the scattering black crowd, allowing for too many pairs of eyes.

The cold feeling grew inside her chest, pressing down on her heart.

A golden flash of sun caught her eye. She widened the gap between her fingers so as to see better, where they then froze. Someone was looking at her.

She searched for the golden sparkle of sunlight. It was a young child's hair…and the girl was pointing right at her.

The girl tugged on the black suit jacket of a man, someone older than she. The Angel was not adept at picking out ages and could not tell where this man fit. The small girl began tugging harder, pulling him somewhere.

They were both headed toward her, and she could do nothing about it for she could not move. Their eyes were still locked onto her and she had – quite literally – turned to stone.

The small golden haired one came up to the Angel's feet. She and the man – or boy?– looked up into the Angel's covered face together.

After a moment, the man-boy looked down at the girl.

"Alright, sweetheart," he said. His voice was quiet, and it was young. So young. But she thought everyone's voice was young.

"Go to the car. I'll meet you back home," he said.

The small girl nodded, her hair bouncing. She hopped away from the Angel and began to make her way back to the funeral party.

The man-boy stayed.

She did not look at him. When he looked away, she would have her warmth. Her hunger would be gone. But she had to wait. He had to look away.

The man-boy sighed, looking down at her feet.

"Hello there."

And if she had not been stone in that moment, she would have started. He had spoken to her.

It was a quiet speaking, a sad speaking.

But it was a speaking aimed to _her._

She lifted her eyes up.

He was looking at the hands that covered her face.

He smiled. It was a sad smile. "My mum always loved angels."

He was a pretty man-boy. His hair was black, blacker than the black waves that beat against her cliff. His skin was the white clouds. His eyes were the pale blue sky.

She could almost see the flap of the white seagull wings in them.

He looked like her home.

It was nice. It made her think of the spring rain and how fresh it made the world.

He spoke again.

"Watch over her, will you? I mean, she always thought angels were looking out for her, so I think she should have one even when she's not here."

She would not take this man-boy who looked like home. The wind favored him – it whispered to her through the branches of the trees that it did. It had given his eyes the sky and the birds. She had seen others that the wind had favored, but not for a long time. Not since she had first come to this new world.

"Umm…so, yeah. She needs a protector. A guardian angel." At this, his mouth quirked upwards into another smile.

"I guess a stone angel would be fitting. She needs someone to watch her forever, you know. Someone who won't die. And, well, I guess stone doesn't die, does it? You can't kill a stone."

No. Stone could not die.

It could not be killed.

How she wished it could.

"So…thanks for taking up the job. She'd have really appreciated it." With that, he turned and began to walk away. She lowered her hands a bit to watch him over the tips of her fingers. The wind's man-boy continued walking, and did not look back.

She was not cold anymore.

She was not hungry.

Someone had spoken, and her loneliness was gone for a moment.

Someone had spoken, and she was not quite as empty.

Contact was what the Angels lived for – it was what they craved. She had been given a rare form of that contact, and she was whole.

Not many had ever spoken to the stone Angels on their lonesome journey through Time.

* * *

That night, she did not go to her brethren's hovels to whisper fantasies in the dark.

She moved her home to a grave marker, and stood there through the night.

The best guardian angels, after all, were those made of stone.

* * *

_The wind pitied the lonely angel who cried on the cliff. It sent her a gift – the wind fashioned its very own child for her. And the lonely angel was never lonely again._


	3. Gravestones and Fuchsia

**Hi everyone! I hope everyone has had a lovely week! It is certainly nice to be back! That being said, I hope that you enjoy chapter three! Please, please, please feel free to review or ask any questions about the story you'd like – I will reply to any and all questions put to me. I especially like reviews. They make my day!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Once upon a time, there lived a lonely angel on top of a cliff. She became the guardian angel of a dead woman, and stood the ghost's grave for so long that she eventually turned to stone._

* * *

She stood by the grave for two days before she saw the man-boy again. During those two days, she did not move from her post, forfeiting her chances to see the other Angels for the sake of her new task. She truly didn't mind it. She was still warm from being spoken to and needed neither ancient tales nor hunting to satisfy her appetite.

She did not do much to occupy herself those two days. She listened as the wind blew its cool breeze and whispered its secrets as it came and went. She counted the shadows of the flitting clouds beneath the sun's rays. She smelled the promising dampness of the rich, black earth.

And all the while, she stared through her stone fingers at the grave marker. Its words soon became etched into her mind, the indented letters pressed deeper there the longer she read.

**Mae Ellen Richards**

**Loving Mother and Caring Wife**

**April 23, 1968 – **

**March 29, 2013**

_Mae Ellen Richards._

What a lovely name.

For two days she read, and for two days she watched. She did so, not out of _duty_ to the man-boy, but to repay his kindness. She hoped that he would not mind an empty statue looming over his mother's grave.

* * *

On the third day after the funeral, he walked through the front gate.

_Creeaakk._

The black gate was worn and rusty; it creaked and squawked mournfully each time it was opened. It was her somber warning bell.

_Humans are coming._

_Hide your eyes._

She watched through her parted fingers as the man-boy weaved around the other stones sticking out of the ground like rotten, jagged teeth, making his way to his specific stone.

Her stone.

He was carrying flowers. They were pink, a brighter pink than the flowers that grew on the trees in the cemetery.

Mourners always brought brightly colored flowers to place on the graves. Perhaps to ward away the darkness that so often kept misery's company, or maybe in hopes of the color reaching their loved ones lying deep underground. She did not know. She doubted she ever would.

The man-boy approached. His skin was still a cloud, his hair still the crashing waves, the toiled earth. She could not see his eyes, for they were locked on the grass.

He did not see her yet.

She was not yet frozen into solid rock.

She could still take him, if she wanted to. She could take this child of the wind, could consume his days and his years, until he was but a memory. She could fold him into herself, taste the tempest rolling beneath his skin and the fire of his life. And it would taste good.

So, so good.

And she so, so wanted to.

But she would not.

She was not yet hungry and needed not waste this man-boy for an absent appetite. She could go for years without feeding and any snacking in-between was not necessary. He had spoken to her. His kindness and consideration deserved a certain respect from her. He was also a favorite of the wind; she need not tempt its wrath today.

And so she allowed him to come to his mother's grave without incident.

He knelt down beside the grave marker and placed the flowers on top of the stone. She imagined the lively pink seeping into the ground and comforting the buried woman as she lay in the dark.

The man-boy sighed, still looking at the ground. "Hey, mum," he said softly. His voice sounded a bit like the breeze.

"I'm sorry I had to wait so long to come. I had to take care of Lottie, see, and I couldn't manage to get away without leaving her alone. It's her birthday soon, you know. She's so excited, can hardly wai – "

His eyes lifted off of the grave and landed on the hem of her dress. She was forced to stay frozen.

He made no sound as his eyes travelled farther up to meet her covered face. And then –

"What the bloody _hell?_"

If she had physically been able to wince at that point, she might have. She had never considered the fact that the humans of this world were not quite accustomed to statues that could move.

His eyes never leaving her, he blindly reached into his pocket and took out a small silver device. She had seen the humans speak into them before and had heard voices reply. It was their primary form of communication, she assumed, as their cries could not travel through the air to find their brethren as the Angels' could.

She took the chance to look at his eyes. They were still blue like the sky.

She could still see birds flying through them.

"Dad?" Eyes still on her, he spoke into the silver square. "Dad, I'm at Mum's grave. Did you pay for an angel statue to be at her marker?...No?...Ok, well did you have that one that's always been here, that crying one, moved to her grave?...No?" At this, he sighed again. He seemed to sigh quite a bit. "No, I didn't think you did….Oh, no, don't worry about it….Yeah, no, I'll be home soon."

The device away from his ear, the man-boy devoted the full force of his stare to her.

"Ok," he breathed. "Ok. You're not insane, you're just trying out all possibilities. Yeah. That's it."

After a brief pause, he spoke again. "Um…hello?"

And he was addressing _her_.

She knew that he was speaking to her because she was getting warmer.

It felt just as nice as it had before.

"I…Erm, I don't know if you remember me, but…um…I'm the guy from the other day. I – I asked you to look over my mum in a _brief _fit of – I don't know, insanity, or grief – and now you're _here_ and I have absolutely _no_ clue what is going on. So…if you could just…I don't know, like, _explain _or someth – Christ, I'm losing my mind." He quickly thrust his head in his hands, breaking his line of sight that had previously been trained directly on her.

He looked at the ground, muttering and running his hands through his hair, but she still did not move.

She did not know what she should do.

She was ancient – almost as old as Time itself. And yet, no one had ever spoken to her with any intent other than begging her to spare their lives. She had never refused an opportunity to feed. She had never seen any intelligent being who had resembled her home, the only comfort left to her in her long life. This was entirely new ground to her, a dangerous terrain that could crumble out from under her feet were she to take a single step out of line.

So, yes.

She, a primordial creature who had witnessed the brightest galaxies fade and entire planets disintegrate, was uncertain of what to do.

She supposed that she would do nothing.

She did wonder how he would react were she to do _something_ rather than _nothing_.

The Angels were feared in almost all corners of the universe. What they were was known to all, and all knew to take care to avoid the hungry ones made of stone. The name "_Lonely Assassins_" was treated as a deadly poison, and was spat out violently as soon as the syllables touched anyone's lips. But this world, Earth, was so basic compared to the others. The people knew nothing of otherworldly creatures and believed not in the tales of ghosts and ghouls that live in the dark. They did not know to cower in fear at shadows and stars and strange sounds in the night. They could not comprehend anything beyond what they knew. To this man-boy, she was not alive.

She was a statue.

And that was all she was.

On this world, statues did not live. They did not move. They did not breathe.

He was already turning away from the grave. As he began to stalk back through the maze of markers and mausoleums, she decided that she had done _nothing_ for long enough.

She would not reveal herself.

She would not change his perceptive of the world around him.

She would just _move_ – so as to see the man-boy who spoke to her walk away with an unobstructed view.

She thought that was a reasonable enough request of her life – to allow her to watch someone, just once, actually _live_ life, even if it was just walking away from a grave.

So she moved her hands down away from her eyes, leaving only her mouth obscured.

A quick glimpse would be enough.

She had not counted on him turning around to look at his mother's grave one last time.

He had only been a few steps away when he looked back.

Just a few.

He had still been quite close.

He could clearly see her face.

He could easily see her eyes peering at him over her fingertips.

And she could not move at all.

He stumbled back to her, shaking the whole time. He trembled as though he were a leaf caught in a windstorm.

But it was fear that made the wind's man-boy shake, not the wind.

He was back in front of her, getting very close, looking into her face.

They were looking eye-to-eye. The warmth that, before now, she had associated with feeding grew.

It felt as though one of the bright pink flowers sitting on the grave marker were blossoming in her chest. That's what this brief companionship gave her – life. The life of springtime was opening inside of her.

The angel hoped that Mae Ellen Richards could feel the vibrant fuchsia of the petals in her grave as well. Death, surely, demanded the vibrant company of life as well.

After all, she was practically dead, and she craved it more than anything.

"What _are_ you?" the man-boy breathed.

There was no disgust in his tone. Fear, yes, but also fascination.

She was familiar with the first sensation, but not the second. It was always fear and revulsion_._ Never fear and _wonder._

Of course, this naïve human did not know enough of her tragic race to consider them abominable. Once he learned, he would run.

Oh, how he would _run_.

But first, he had to have the opportunity to learn. She did not think he ever would. Who would ever have enough knowledge on this planet to tell him?

He was muttering to himself again, his eyes still boring holes into hers. "…Her eyes hadn't been there before…Well, maybe they _had_…No, she moved…Can't be sure…"

And so, since she had condemned herself already, when he looked down in his musings, she lowered her hands to reveal her whole face. And when he looked back –

He promptly tripped over his own two feet trying to back away, landing on the stone marker with a string of curses.

She smiled a bit. Only a bit. Half of a smile. She had not smiled in a very, very long time – she could count each occasion on her two hands.

He looked up. "You are a _moving statue_ and you're bloody _smiling_. What – I don't – _What are you_?"

Of course, she could not reply. He was looking at her expectantly, still shaking like that poor leaf, halting any movement that might have been possible for her.

She had never spoken to a human anyway.

She did not even know if he would be able to hear or understand her voice.

And so she continued to stand as a statue, smiling part of a smile, looking at the flustered man-boy, who stared back at her with an open mouth.

"Well?" he said. He shivered, but he also smiled a bit. "If you're going to shock me like that, you at least owe me some sort of explanation. Come on then!"

She offered nothing in return.

He stared at her for quite a while. She stared right back.

He sighed. He seemed to sigh a lot, this man-boy.

"Alright," he said. "No speaking. I get it. Can you speak at all, or are you just choosing not to?"

_I don't know_, she wanted to tell him. _Perhaps I can; perhaps I cannot._

He stared at her expectantly. She could give him nothing so long as he continued to do so.

Eventually, he looked down, then back up again almost immediately. "Ok. Well, voice box or not, it has been a pleasure meeting you, Miss…Angel. Statue. Thing. Um, ok. I've got to go, but you know what?" His face broke into a grin. "I think I'm going to come back."

A part of her stone face must have looked boggled, because he began nodding. "Yup, you aren't too bad. Quiet can be good sometimes. And if you're going to stay here, and I still come here to see Mum, then we'll run into each other anyway. Besides, I can't imagine there are too many stone angels out there who hide their faces like you – it's gotta get lonely, standing in a cemetery all by yourself. I'll keep you company sometimes."

His voice grew quieter. "And…and thank you for watching over Mum. She's really have appreciated this." Then he was smiling again. "But I will completely forget what Mum would have liked if the next time I come back you kill me, like some awful horror movie. I will ensure that my ghost possesses a tank or something and come for you, got that?"

He nodded again. "Ok. We're good? Excellent. I've gotta go – Dad's got work and Lottie can't be home by herself. I'll be back soon, Miss Angel. I promise you that."

The man-boy turned and began to trot off through the graveyard. "Oh!" he called, turning around.

When he looked at her again, her arms had fallen to her side.

She couldn't hold them up any longer.

"Aha, you moved again! Great! I just thought you should know – my name's Lucas. Lucas Damian Richards." And then he was through the old rusted gate and gone, leaving the Angel to stare after him.

* * *

_The dead woman's son brought flowers to her grave and their scent was so appealing, their color so bright, that they woke the woman from her slumber and brought her back to life. The woman and her son sang to the Angel until she broke through her stone cage, and they all began a new life together._


	4. Demons and Crimson

**Hello all! Sorry for the update delay – I was in Disney World! Yay! I hadn't been there in about ten years, and I had a really, really good time. Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter! Each review just makes my day – please don't forget to review at the end of this one! I'm **_**really**_** nervous about this chapter, and I really want to know what you all think!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Once upon a time, a little boy lost his mother. Distraught, he ran away from home, only to come across an angel in the wood. The angel had been driven mad many years before, and as soon as she laid eyes on the boy, she killed him, convinced he was a demon. He died in her arms._

* * *

She did not know what to think.

She really, truly didn't.

The man-boy knew that she was living, and fully capable of moving. The man-boy was afraid of her. The man-boy was fascinated by her. The man-boy had _spoken _to her.

And it felt good. Very, very good. She was energized, content; she felt as though she had consumed the lives of at least three young humans in the span of the last hour.

It was different being spoken to when the speaker knew that they were speaking to something alive. She had once had a young woman collapse at her stone feet, crying out for mercy from God in Heaven – please, _please,_ could his angels not give her the peace and protection she longed for? The woman had poured out the tale of her woes to the stone Angel, languishing in her tears, her sobs ripping out of her throat and clawing through the night air.

Her name had been Mary, and that had happened a long time ago – almost within the first five years of the Angel's time on the Earth. And though the brokenhearted noblewoman's words had affected the Lonely Assassin, their warmth could not compare to that of the conversation of the man-boy – _Lucas; the man-boy had given her his name._

She felt invigorated, and it was not a feeling she would be willing to let go of easily.

She had an opportunity to have a _connection_ – to have the comfort of another soul next to hers. Of course, such a sensation was essentially what feeding brought her as well, but this could be the gateway to a greater supply of energy. If he continued visiting and speaking, she would have a nearly inexhaustible source of life available to her with almost no effort on her part. Such a ready surplus of life energy – _Lucas – _ would not die for some time and could only be rivaled by the great creations and machines of the Time Lords – and their mark on the universe was fading.

This feeling could last without the constant feeding. And she wanted it.

Of course, the man-boy – _Lucas; or perhaps Lucas Damian –_ had to have a reason to return to her more than once.

And she wanted him to come back more than once. This sensation was not just a substitution for feeding; it was an _improvement_.

After all, communication and companionship were what the Weeping Angels longed for more than anything in all of creation. He had given her that gift; she refused to allow him to leave her wanting.

It was beautiful. She would no longer be alone. The empty ocean of loneliness had been ebbing away at her heart for some time and she grew colder and colder with each passing year, and she required a salvation of sorts. Living beings required community, required touch. Such was the curse of the Angels to never experience such luxuries.

No – such _necessities._

She had to keep this gift from Mother Time and Sister Fate – the two Great Ladies were not kind, nor were they generous, and such opportunities were not granted often.

Unfortunately, if she could do nothing but move when his eye strayed from her form, his interest would soon be lost.

She could not speak to him with her voice. None but the Angels could hear the voices of other Angels. The sounds produced by their crumbling throats and leaden tongues were so old that none but those the age of the oldest of stars could pick up their keening and their wailing. Not many still lived who knew that the Angels could spin words and songs and well as any other being in the cosmos. Most believed them to be mute, with no speaking ability whatsoever.

But Angels did have methods to communicate with outside species. The most common was that of snapping a victim's neck and accessing the vocal chords, leaving the control of the body up to the Angel. This particular practice had been discovered by a large group of her kind on the orange plains of Tænzè, and it had proven to be most useful. It provided both a way to speak to other beings, as well as food. The Angels did not have to send their victims back and allow them their own lives; the consumption of their energy was just as effective through the breaking of bones and the stopping of hearts. She considered this option for a time, believing it to be the best route, and began to scour the graveyard for its usual collection of morose visitors. She was certain that at least one mourner would be alone and ripe for the taking. However, after glancing at his mother's grave, she remembered – humans did not like to see the dead. They burned and buried them, but never allowed them to stay with the living. It upset them, which she doubted she would ever understand; bodies were nothing but empty shells of lost souls. And souls were very easy to come by – not rare at all.

Grief was not a feeling she was intimate with, although she observed it every day in her cemetery home. The air reeked of it at times, and she could taste it on the wind – tears, sweat, despair, and loneliness. She could only truly grasp the concept of loneliness; to feel true grief, she supposed that first one must have someone to actually lose.

So, no, she would not tamper with emotions she did not understand. She would not kill someone and cause grief in the man-boy. She would speak to her boy of the wind another way.

Finding that other way proved to be difficult.

Angels primarily used the snapped-neck method because it provided them with a food source as well as a means of communication. She had rarely ever had much use for anything else, although she knew other ways existed; however, she had adopted a common thought process among her kind: _Why seek other possibilities when one sufficed to complete two jobs at once?_

To find more ways, she was going to have to remember them.

And remembering _hurt_.

Angels had lived for so long that their memories blurred together, shifting and morphing until they were unintelligible from each other. And then they faded. A countless number of years were lost from her. Simply forgotten, shoved into the recesses of her mind, they slept silently in the dark. They were rarely ever called upon, if ever – some were more difficult to reach than others, and some had decayed past the point of saving. Some memories just did not exist anymore. Calling upon these lost days was a painful experience, only done in times of great need. But she would do it.

If she wanted to keep the man-boy, she had to.

So she closed her eyes, preparing to do what she loathed most in the cosmos to do.

And she delved into the depths of her mind.

It was dark – much too dark. It was an oppressive blackness. It beat down on all her senses, blocking off her sight and smell and touch, leaving a pounding pressure on her skull. She was drowning, and she was floating. Sleeping, and dying. And all the time it was black. The darkness moved and writhed and twisted, yet stayed still. It was silent in the darkness, and there were screams. It was the absence of color and all of them at once. It was everything and nothing. It held her captive, yet allowed her to move through its sludge and its fluids. It caressed her face and pinned down her wings and it _hurt. _And for a very, very long time, that's all there was – nothing and everything and darkness. No memories, no life – just the void, a wasteland that only horror stories and ghosts could call home. She beat back the creatures that lived in those depths as she floated through. She would not allow their claws to touch her skin, nor their whispers to taint her ears. She lived in the darkness for an eternity and an instant. It was all there was.

And then she found them, huddling in a dark back corner, covered in dust and tar and stars – a collection of faded memories. Those that had left her after they had run their course and that she could hold on to no longer. They were difficult to catch, and difficult to crack open. They were locked away for a reason, whether that reason be that they were too old to recall, or too crushing to stand, or too distant to grasp. They did not want to be found and resisted her efforts to penetrate them. And then –

Light and color and screams and whispers and wails and red and white and galaxies and stone and sky and black and songs and wings and silence and fire and heartbeats and ink and princes and kings and graveyards and blades and eyes and noise and flowers and jewels and feathers and silk and water and sand and chasms and dust and stories and castles and gods and goddesses and suns and moons and ghouls and corpses and music and longing and nighttime and trees and tears and wars and bone and flesh and blood and death and falling and flying and running and emptiness and hatred and anger and sadness and loneliness and loneliness and loneliness and _pain_.

She knew that she was screaming. Outside of the confines of her mind, her mouth was open and something terrible was ripping out of her throat and it was piercing and it was painful and it was loud. She was screaming and sobbing and shrieking and it echoed inside her head and made everything shake and _oh god it hurt_.

For years and years, that was all there was. She lived her life over again and it was an eternity of screaming and it never ended and she hated every moment. Each second was a day, each minute a year, and it was eons all together. The creatures that resided in the dark void in her mind escaped the black mire in which they made their home and tore her apart with their claws and ripped her stone skin with their teeth and bled their black ooze onto her wounds. The howled in her ears and added their own broken wails to her screaming and they laughed and giggled and cried black tears and then shredded and slashed at her with their demonic fangs again.

And she didn't want to live anymore. But she couldn't make it stop. It wouldn't stop and she couldn't open her eyes and it hurt and it wouldn't _stop. _

_Make it stop._

_Please._

She was thrown back into the dark, away from her broken and diminished memories, and those that had not escaped the black place embraced her with their poisonous arms. Her eyes would not open and she could see nothing but the dark once again.

She just wanted to leave it all.

She wanted to die.

Then, amidst the shrieks and cackles that permeated the darkness, a small voice made itself known. Once it spoke, all went still and silent. Though quiet, it held immense power – it commanded the attention of her subconscious.

"_Rest and be at peace, little one. I have plans for you yet."_

And it was over.

She was out, and it had all gone away.

She was free, and she had found what she had set out to discover, though at a price.

She hated to be reminded of why the Angels chose never to remember.

* * *

When she finally awoke, a full day and a full night had already passed. It was morning again. The sky was gray and no birds were singing, but she didn't mind at all. It was beautiful compared to the horrors she had just escaped. She breathed in the air, shaking as much as stone could shake, and considered whether or not she should lower her hands away from her face for a moment to let the cool breeze touch it. She decided not to – she was not ready to see the world quite yet.

She had retrieved the information she wanted: how to speak without killing. She hadn't had use for such a practice since near her beginning, which had been quite a long time ago. However, that information had come with a host of other things, very few of them good. She hoped that it would all recede back into the dark soon; even as a blur of images and sound, it was painful to think on. It had been thousands of years since she had attempted to enter the deeper parts of her mind; she would not be doing it again anytime soon.

She let out a breath. The journey into her mind had left her weaker than she had been in hundreds of years. She felt as though she hadn't eaten in…well, she didn't know. But she was cold. And hungry. And tired.

But soon.

Soon she would have warmth and strength again.

* * *

He came to the graveyard that afternoon.

She still hadn't removed her hands from her face, but she heard the squeak of the rusted hinges of the front gate. Luckily, it had been a slow day; he was the only visitor at the time.

She parted her fingers to watch him. He was determinedly avoiding looking at her, keeping his eyes on the grass as he walked. He was carrying red flowers today.

They reminded her of blood.

Blood, and rubies, and dying stars.

Red was not a good color today.

He approached the Angel, his eyes still down. He set the flowers gently on his mother's grave. There was a moment of silence, and then he looked up, grinning.

"Hello, Miss Angel. Told you I'd be back. How are you this fine day?"

She could do nothing yet. Not while he was looking at her. She wasn't even sure if she could. She was still so exhausted from earlier.

Fortunately, he looked away as he began taking the pack on his back off. She lowered her hands away from her face, holding her arms down by her sides. That she could do easily.

"Now," he said, struggling with the zipper, "I wrote down a few ideas about you, and I figured that maybe, if I got anything right, you could – I don't know – let me know somehow or something. Does that sound – "

He looked up at her and was silent for a moment.

"You…you moved again," he observed brightly. She supposed she could not fault him for losing control of his more intelligent mental faculties when faced with a moving statue. Then, he did something she did not expect. He grinned.

"Well, it's good to see you moving about."

She was beginning to question whether or not her man-boy was stupid. At the very least, he lacked a serious sense of self-preservation.

He held eye contact with her and he reached for a sheet of paper in his bag. Good. Eye contact was what she needed. He held it for a moment longer after he had grabbed the notebook.

"Alright, let's get started, shall we?" he said, moving his eyes to the paper.

Wonderful. He had looked into her eyes for just long enough. She had a foothold now. It was only a matter of digging deep enough.

"I've got a few theories on how you can move and why you move _when_ you do, if that makes sense. First, on why you move. I figure that you are either a princess trapped in stone by an evil witch, the product of some odd wizard's spell, a fallen angel, or some kind of space alien. Am I close at all?"

She smiled before he looked up.

"Alright, creepy smile says yes. Or maybe I'm completely off the mark and you're laughing at me. One of those options is quite encouraging, and the other is rather embarrassing. Nevertheless, I shall continue." He scrunched up his face for a moment. "Maybe you've been here longer than any of us humans and we've just never known that you lived here before us. Or maybe stone was always alive and now you're just slow, like the Ents in _Lord of the Rings_ or something."

His voice was filling her, and for the first time all day the darkness was beginning to ebb away from the edges of her vision. Her slightly improved strength was also helping her work her way deeper…Almost there now…

"Anything? Any reaction to this at all? Am I close to anything? I promise, I'm not usually one for searching for fairies or anything, and bloody hell, I feel right ridiculous about this, but it's the best I can do." He looked at her expectantly. When she didn't reply or move, his shoulders sagged a little.

"Okay," he said, seeming to try and cheer himself up, "now on to why you never ever move when I can see you, like any reasonable person would. My best guess is that you have terrible stage fright and are extremely shy. If that is the case, then please be assured that I, my dear Miss Angel, do not care one bit if you move in front of me! No need to be frightened of my reaction."

He studied her face. "My only other good guess is that you are trying really hard for this whole 'super mysterious and creepy' aura. I've gotta say, if that's your goal, you are doing a superb job. I know it's hard to tell, but every time you move I have to restrain from screaming like a little girl. I only stop myself because I'm assuming that you are of the female sex, and as such I must appear to be strong and manly in order to impress you."

She could not help herself. She laughed. She laughed for the first time in years, and _he heard her_.

"_Hello, Lucas Damian Richards," _she said.

It had actually been a very simple process. It was much like inserting herself into someone's eye after they had observed her image for too long a time. She used his eyes – once called _windows to the soul_ by someone on this planet – as an entrance. Once she entered his head, it was quite easy. She established a mental link, which had been but child's play. A part of her now resided in him, but not enough to turn him into an Angel. She could communicate without opening her lips, could speak without using her voice – and he would hear her in his mind.

Of course she had left this method behind. Unlike snapping necks, this one was not nearly as much fun. It was too easy, too boring – she did not blame herself for allowing it to slip out of focus.

His reaction was quite comical. If he were to jump that high each time she spoke, she was quite sure that the torturous trip into her mind would eventually become worth it.

He was shaking, his eyes nearly as wide as his head. "_What – the – HELL?"_ he demanded. "F-first, you're all s-silent and stoic and _completely mute_ and now you're j-just _talking_?"

She did believe that her man-boy was a nervous talker.

"_Yes," _she replied.

"Oh," he said. "Okay." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just – okay." He looked up at her and smiled wryly. "I mean, it's not like this situation can get any weirder, right?"

She doubted that she would ever understand this human.

"So…" he trailed off, shifting a bit in his position on the damp ground. Then, he suddenly snapped to attention. "Wait. Wait. Your lips didn't move. How the hell am I hearing you right now?"

"_I am speaking to you through your mind, of course."_

"Oh, of course," he said. "Great. My brain is making up scenarios to justify my insanity. Hearing voices in your head – not a good sign, you know. And no one can prove that you're not speaking to me, because it's freaking in my head. _Why_ is it in my head?"

"_Well, it's much simpler."_

"Uh-huh. Simpler than moving your lips up and down? What? Can you not move your mouth or something?"

"_No, I can – you would not be able to perceive my voice."_

"Huh." He seemed to consider this for a moment. "Okay, fair enough. So, why didn't you do this the last time I was here?"

"_I…I could not remember how."_

He seemed rather thrown by this. "Um…alright then. Not much talking to, uh, humans then?"

"_No."_

"Oh. Alright." They sat in silence for a moment. She felt incredible. She was having a conversation, an exchange involving both parties, and her energy was as high as it had ever been. She felt as though there was a small sun burning inside of her. It even seemed that, for the moment at least, her earlier painful experience had not happened for days.

"Oh!" The man-boy jumped to his feet. "Where on earth are my manners? My name is – oh. I already told you my name, didn't I? And, oh, Lord, and I sounded like a fool when I did. Just – just forget that I made an arse of myself. Gaahh. 'Lucas Damian Richards'! Why did I give you my full name? I sounded like an idiot!" He looked sheepishly up at her. "And I'm sounding like one again now."

He straightened himself. "Let's try this again. Hello, my name is Lucas. Lucas Richards, who is ignoring the Damian in there for fear of once again looking like a fool. What's your name, Miss Angel?"

What was her name?

Her name?

Well…she did not know.

She wasn't sure if she had ever had one, actually.

She was a Weeping Angel, a Lonely Assassin, a slave to Time. She had never needed a name past the titles already given to her.

And a small part of her felt cold again. The darkness in her mind pressed a tiny bit closer.

_She didn't have a name._

And so, not willing to stay silent forever, she told him as such. _"I…I don't have one."_ She hadn't meant for her voice to sound as weak as it did.

Nothing yet that day seemed to surprise him as much as that small statement. His mouth went slightly agape, his eyes even wider than before. "How can you not have a name?"

"_Not everyone needs a name to function."_ It was true. She had lived without one for longer than she cared to think about.

He looked sad. He looked almost as dejected as the graveyard's mourners. "No, that's not right. Everyone needs a name. I mean, did you have one once, or something?"

"_No."_

It was a rather upsetting thought, but not so depressing that she could not carry on with her life. Lucas looked more crushed than she felt about the ordeal. He stood in front of her, the wind whistling through his black hair and tousling it even more, his eyes forlorn.

After a while, he smiled at her halfheartedly. "We'll deal with that later then. I promise I'll find you a name other than Miss Angel." He brightened suddenly. He was a bit too changeable for her taste – it was all too fast. "But that's not our main concern right now."

"_No?"_

"Oh, no. No, the primary issue that we must tackle immediately is this –" He paused for a more dramatic effect. "In my guesses, did I get anything about you right at all?"

Even if she had been able to move at that point, she would not have. She is quite sure that she would have still just stared at him in shock, much as she was doing then.

He continued. "I am quite curious, you see, as well as rather prideful. Those two characteristics combined create a rather unpleasant mix – I absolutely must know if I was right."

She didn't really know what to tell him, or even what to think, but she didn't have much time to ponder it. _"Well then, I suppose we have quite a lot to talk about,"  
_she managed.

"Yes," he replied, instantly more serious. "I believe we do."

* * *

_As the boy lay dying, the angel had a moment of sanity and held him in her arms, crying. She brought him crimson flowers and lay them on his wounds to mask the ruby red blood. He spoke to her as she sobbed, whispering sweet words that she did not deserve. His final words were, "I forgive you."_


	5. Questions and Answers

**Hi everyone. I'd just like to take this moment to thank my lovely reader and single reviewer, Seville. You, my dear, are an absolute saint, and it made my entire day when you reviewed. Thank you very, very much for taking the time to write those encouraging words. That being said, everyone please review and let me know what you think! I really, really appreciate it when you do! **

**Sorry for the chapter length – it's a little short.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Once upon a time, a lonely angel befriended a young human child. She shared all the secrets of being an angel with this child, who in turn dreamt each night of sprouting wings and becoming one himself. The angel did not have the heart to tell him that it was impossible to become an angel without giving up one's soul first, and allowed him to continue his fruitless dreams without saying a word._

* * *

He stared at her for a while.

She stared right back.

Really, from her perspective, the situation was ideal. Although she knew that it would be a wasted hope to wish that the man-boy would be satisfied with only observing her, it didn't stop her from wanting exactly that. Merely searching eyes and blissful silence – was it truly too much to ask for?

Apparently, yes.

"So…" he started. "Anything at all?"

And therein lay the issue. He was imploring her – were any of his guesses on her state of being correct? However, she had no idea of where to even start and what to tell him. It was vital that she concoct a way to give him some semblance of an answer that did not scare him away or reveal more of her nature than necessary. She had gained this power of speech in order to remain a wonder to him, to keep him coming to her – it had not been all to tell him _everything_ so that he could just walk away.

She supposed she would just have to start and… see what would happen.

"Listen," he started again. "I know I don't have any right to ask this of you, but, I mean, I'd really like to know. Besides, you're kind of the one who gave yourself away in the first place. Why not just wing it, see how I take it? I mean, I'm already freaking out here – I know it doesn't seem like it, but I am never this chatty and I think it's a sign of my head getting ready to explode – and finding out that you're some monster from the black lagoon isn't going to make much of a difference to that, I don't think. Well, not unless you're something that wants to kill me, bec – "

"_Hush, child."_

He hushed.

She said no more, once again quarreling with herself on what exactly to start with.

"Um…" Lucas interrupted. "Would you like to sit down?"

He was gazing at her from his new perch on the grass.

"_No."_

"Are you sure?"

She had not sat down in several years. It made no difference to her what was supporting her, her legs or the ground.

He seemed to take her silence as a final answer and started picking at the grass. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, she swept her stone skirts aside and gently lowered herself to the earth, placing herself in what she considered to be a much more dignified position than he. As all her movements, to the man-boy this seemed to take no time at all, and when he glanced back up at her after a mere second, he let out a startled yell.

"Don't _do_ that!" He berated heatedly, his face lacking of color, almost echoing the hue of the white clouds she so often observed from her home.

"_I am afraid that I cannot help it."_

"Oh?" he questioned, perking up a bit. "Why not?"

She hesitated, but the warmth of his company and the satisfaction it lent persuaded her to continue. _"It is simply how I was created. I move quickly and silently – I always have."_

He considered this. "Ok, so…do I not see you move because you're so fast?"

"_No."_

He squinted at her. "You are really forthcoming with the details, you know that?"

"_Pardon me?"_ She had overheard that phrase quite often during her time on Earth – it tasted odd when it escaped from her mouth. As if she should not have attempted to use human verbiage.

He sighed. "Well, at least you're polite – I guess – sometimes. It was a weak attempt at sarcasm. It roughly meant 'please expand upon what you meant by _no_'."

"_Ah. I suppose I can do that. You see, Lucas Damian Richards – "_

"Just Lucas."

"_Certainly. You see, Lucas, I cannot move when you observe me."_

He looked surprised. "You mean, like you _can't _move or you _won't _move?"

"_I physically cannot move. I turn to stone, in fact. Some fool once claimed this to be the most perfect defense mechanism ever evolved; I am inclined to disagree, as my kind did not evolve this way but were created as such. Also, it makes…some things…rather difficult at times." _Things such as contact with other Angels. Things such as seeing what her species actually looks like. Things such as living happily.

Things such as these were made very difficult indeed.

Lucas was no longer looking at her, choosing to instead run his hands through his hair and stare at the ground rather aggressively (she was not quite sure how he managed that), concentration hardening his face.

His eyes were cultivating storm clouds, but she could still see the wings of birds flapping happily in the blue.

"This opens up so many more questions…" he muttered. "So, you don't actually look like a statue? When no one's looking at you, you just look like an angel? One not made out of stone?"

"_I…I do not believe so_._" _

"What do you mean? Don't you know what you look like?"

She hated thinking about this. It reminded her of how alone they all were. _"It is very possible that I do not. I have never seen another Angel – "_

"What? Why on earth not?"

"_We cannot make eye contact, lest we be forced to see each other as stone for all eternity."_

"Wait…That rule applies to you guys seeing each other too?"

"_Unfortunately."_

"So…you could have blue skin and green hair and red eyes and you would never know."

What a creative man-boy. _"I do not think so."_

"And why is that?"

"_Because…" _she began, _"Because I can see myself and not be rendered still. I am not made to freeze when my own eyes touch my form, and I see that I am grey stone – moving, yes, but dull in color and mineral in nature nonetheless. This is what I know only by seeing my hands and my body." _

"No mirror to see your face?"

"_No."_

Lucas was quiet before smiling softly at her, with the same pity in his eyes as he'd had upon discovering that she was nameless. "That's a real shame," he said softly. She thought he might continue on the matter, but instead he said, "You've been talking about others like you. Are there a lot?"

"_Yes, I suppose you could say that."_

"Right. And you all are…?"

"_We have many names."_

"Great. Could I please hear some then?"

"_We are most commonly known as the Weeping Angels, and that is the only name you need to be aware of at this time."_ She was almost quite certain that the phrase "Lonely Assassins" would bring up some questions that she hoped to avoid.

"Weeping Angels…huh. Fitting. So what exactly are the _Weeping Angels_? Mutants? Gods? Exotic pets?"

Oh, how to sound eloquent without saying _space alien_? _"We are…an ancient race – possibly the first to ever be created. As old as time itself, if you are to believe the stories, which I do. Even if my memory does not reach back to the beginnings of creation, something tells me that my kind and I followed shortly thereafter. We travel the stars and find homes on different planets, looking for…food. It is a lonesome existence, but a burden that we must bear."_

Lucas was deafeningly silent for several minutes. "You…" he began quietly, not looking at her, "you said that your memory doesn't reach to the beginning. How…exactly how old are you?"

She smiled. It was a sad sort of smile, the smile of one who has seen too much and wishes only to forget. _"As old as the rest of my kind. We do not die very easily."_

"You…you are an al – " he seemed to struggle with forcing the word out; it fought him as if meaning to choke him. " – an alien, who is as old as my planet, and you live in a graveyard?"

"_Oh no; I am much, much older than your planet. Probably millions upon billions of years older than your little rock. And yes, a graveyard. Why not? It is lovely here."_

Lucas was shaking slightly. He said, "Okay, you know how I said it couldn't get much weirder? I think I was wrong. Really, really wrong."

"_Yes, you were."_

He glared halfheartedly at her. "Ok, so – "

"_No."_

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"_I will answer no more questions today," _she replied.

"But…why not?" he asked forlornly.

"_For many reasons, Lucas." _She didn't really like saying his name; she thought _man-boy_ was much more suitable. _"One, you do not need to know everything about me at one time. You may return another day to have your questions answered. Two, I am very tired and wish not to think anymore. Three, it will be dark soon, and I would prefer you not be here if any other Angels decided to make a visit tonight."_ The last reason she fed him was a falsehood. The Angels had established places to share story and song, and her cemetery was not one of them.

Lucas glanced up at the sky. "No," he said. "We have about two hours until it gets dark, and I just live a few minutes away. But I'll go," he stood up as he said this, "and I'll let you rest. I mean, I guess you're not used to talking this much. Of course it would tire you. I'm sorry – I should have been more considerate of that."

"_It is of no fault of yours that I am not as energetic as usual," _she said. The energy he had unknowingly fed her had greatly rejuvenated her and had provided sustenance, but she was not fully recovered from her earlier jaunt into her head. _"Procuring this knowledge of how to speak to you was… difficult and greatly taxing." _She held hope that, were he to return, her risk would be reimbursed.

He frowned. "Then why did you do it?" he questioned. "Why'd you go through all that effort to talk to me?"

She pondered on the correct way to answer. _"Because," _she admitted after a time, _"I am lonely and cold, and have been for a long time. I had hoped you would find reason to return if I could speak." _It was a sparse truth, but the truth nonetheless.

"Oh," he said. "Well, no need to worry about that. I'll be back, I promise. I mean, how could I avoid you?" he said, chuckling without much humor. "You live beside my mum's grave."

"_Yes, I do." _She would not offer to move from her new spot, either.

"_Now, before you leave," _she said, _"you shall offer me something in return for the information I shared with you."_

"I thought you were tired…"

She looked at him silently, taking slight pleasure when he shivered at her blank stone eyes.

"Ok, what do you want?" he asked.

"_I would like to know about you," _she replied. _"Just a bit. It is only fair, as you know so much about me."_

"Um…" he chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. "There's not much to tell. I'm twenty years old – in my second year at university. I've got a dad and a little sister, Lottie, who's five. She'll be six soon. My mum died in a car crash just a week or two ago. That's…that's about it. That's the basics, anyway."

"_That was acceptable." _Twenty years old – so he was a man-boy after all.

A sharp ring split the air, making Lucas jump. It continued to ring in some obnoxious repetitive melody as he scrambled to dig through his pack. He procured a human communication device, cursing.

"It is a lot later than I thought," he said in irritation. He glanced back at her, and barely flinched when he saw that she was now standing. "Look, I've gotta go. Lottie's at home by herself right now, and I've gotta go watch her. And then I have to – " he finally turned off the device, "I just have stuff to do."

His irritation evaporated, and he smiled at her. "Listen, thanks for today. You have completely changed my life, you know that, right? This was incredible. I promise I'll be back soon, okay?" he said.

She said nothing, and he turned around and sprinted through the graves. As he ran, she lifted her hands to her face, a Weeping Angel once again. She stood there throughout the night, not once allowing herself to think about what she had just done.

* * *

_The boy continued to dream about becoming an angel. Eventually, the wind spied on his dreams in the night and whispered in his ear, teaching him how to fly. It took his soul as payment for the lesson, and his cries awoke the angel, who mourned for the loss of her young friend. He became the angel he had dreamed of, but without his soul, it was a sorrowful existence.  
_


	6. Logolepsy and Coffee

**Hey all! Thank you so, so, so much for the fantastic feedback! I was practically dancing with excitement! I would appreciate it so much if you all could manage to give me another wonderful slew of responses and reviews for this chapter!**

**This chapter's going to be a little different – it's going to be from Lucas's point of view. Yay! We'll see how it goes. I think there may be an increasing number of these chapters, depending on which direction I take the story, so I'll need you guys to tell me if you like this or if you would rather it be strictly Angel.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Once upon a time, a man came home to find that his daughter had sprouted wings and had learned how to fly. She whizzed around the house, shouting "Faster, faster!" all the while. He stood trembling at the doorway, too frightened to move, even after she looked over to him and called, "Come, papa! Come and fly with me!"_

* * *

What.

The.

Bleeding.

Hell.

Had.

Just.

Happened?

Seriously.

Because he wasn't quite sure.

Finding out that the statue could move? Yeah, it had freaked him out. He had nightmares about it the night after he visited his mum's grave for the first time.

_Maybe she's a friendly…stone. Statue. Thing, _he had told himself. But that didn't stop the dreams that came to him of her with her creepy smile and her cold, hard hands and her empty eyes. Sure, he had played friendly to her, because that's what you do when a statue with the ability to pulverize you comes to life in front of your eyes. You grin and shake its hand and do general things that won't piss it off.

Besides, it had been kind of fascinating. It had been easy to be nice to her, because she had looked so sad, and decent human beings do their best to cheer sad people up. He had _wanted_ to smile at this thing that had crawled straight out of a horror movie for some odd reason. She had listened to him and had gone to his mother's grave; he owed her. After he left, he couldn't stop thinking about her and how weird it all was. So he had gone back.

He had thought things couldn't get much scarier.

Yeah, wrong.

Not only could she move, but she could _talk – _inside his _head._

Oh yeah, and she was an alien.

Who was about as old as the universe.

Who had a seriously depressing name for her species and no name for herself.

Who lived in a cemetery.

Who was _lonely._

Who could still _talk inside his head_.

And screw it, he had enjoyed himself when he wasn't about to collapse from terror because it was all so incredibly, mind-blowingly awesome.

He had no clue what to think, but as he walked back to his house from his meeting with the Angel at his mum's grave, he pretty much made up his mind to go back there soon.

It may have been the single scariest experience of his life, but it had also been one of the best.

* * *

Lucas didn't usually live at home. He had a room on campus, but he thought it would be best to stay with his dad and Lottie after the accident with his mum. His dad was having a hard time adjusting, and Lottie needed someone to look out for her while his dad was at work. He had considered dropping out of his classes for the rest of the semester, but exams were only a month or two away and he couldn't afford to repeat his second year. So, he walked to class every day and studied in his old room on the top floor of their tiny house. He didn't really mind; it was a temporary solution, and after the summer holidays he would be living on campus again.

He liked his house. He had lived there his entire life and was more comfortable there than anywhere else. It had been left to his parents when they first got married by his mum's more crotchety grandfather, who died two weeks after their wedding. It was an old house – small, and rickety, but lovely nonetheless. The dark wood floors creaked and the wallpaper in the kitchen was ghastly and the pipes groaned in the walls every night, but it had been a good, happy home for the Richards.

Lucas walked up to the weathered white front door and stepped inside, listening for Lottie. He walked down the narrow hallway, his feet shuffling on the blue rug that lined it, and headed up the squeaky stairs, taking them two at a time. On the next landing was his dad's and his sister's room. He poked his head through his sister's door, blinking at the bright pink walls that always took a second to adjust to.

"Hey, Lotts."

She turned to him from her spot of the floor, brandishing a doll in one hand and a crayon in the other. "Lucas!" she said happily, running to him, all bouncing blonde curls and bright smiles.

"Hey, little lady!" he said with a laugh as he hugged her. "You okay?"

"Mm-hmm," she replied, springing over to her basket of stuffed animals and pulling out a rabbit. Mr. Fluff began to viciously attack the doll in her right hand, perky ears and pink bowtie flinging everywhere. Lottie enjoyed making her toys star in dramatic action movies with villains that made no sense. He was sure that her crocodile, Mrs. Daisy, would swoop in and rescue the Barbie from the evil bunny soon enough.

"Alright, well I'm going to go study, okay?" he said. "Come upstairs if you need anything. Dad should be home in an hour or two."

Lottie just nodded, continuing with her game. Lucas chuckled and shut her door.

His room, which was on the top level of the house, was not nearly as colorful as Lottie's. It was just your average room, with a bed, a chair, and a desk piled with old papers. As soon as he walked through the door, he collapsed face down onto the bed and groaned into his pillow.

He would have been content to just stay there, not thinking about anything ('anything' here meaning Angels from outer space), but fifteen minutes into his blissful no-thinking time, his cellphone started ringing. He let out another groan and blearily checked the caller-ID.

It was Lizzie. _Dang it. _He could never not answer her calls.

"Hey, Liz," he said, his face still slightly squashed by the pillow.

"Hey, love!" she said brightly, her Irish accent coloring each word. "Drinks tonight? Brandon, Sarah, and Jack will all be there."

"Ah…no, Lizzie, I'm going to stay in tonight," he told her.

"Ah, you need this, Lucas! There is nothing like a good beer to drown your sorrows. Come on, you can't tell me that this doesn't sound absolutely monsterful."

_Monsterful._ Lizzie had a thing for words. She called it _logolepsy. _She collected the craziest ones she could find and used them in everyday conversation – just threw them in there randomly. He always tried to have a dictionary around when he was with her.

"No, Liz," he moaned. "It does not sound _monsterful_ right now." Whatever that meant.

She was quiet for a minute. "Ok," she said. "What's wrong with you?"

"What do you mean? I just don't feel like going out."

"No," she said. "You always go out when I ask you to. Either my ebullience is starting to get to you – which is impossible, as we both know – or something happened. Come on, out with it."

_Ebullience?_ "My mum just died, Liz," he snapped. "Maybe that's what happened."

"No," she said stubbornly. Good old Liz, not letting him slide anything past her. Annoying, that, but admirable all the same. "That's not it, and you know that I know it," she continued. "What's up with you, Lucas?"

He didn't respond.

"Out with it, Richards," she flashed, "before I beleaguer it out of you."

"Aaahh…" he hesitated. "Look…could you forgo the drinks tonight and come to my place? I've gotta talk to you."

"Ohhh, the intrigue is killing me! Okay, for you, I will skip my evening of fun and fuzzle for you, and only you."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Liz."

"Yeah, yeah. You owe me, Lucas."

He smiled. "I'll pay you in glitter, biscuits, and adoration."

"Hm, I was going to ask for your soul, but you make a convincing counteroffer." She laughed. "I'll be by in about an hour, okay?"

"Okay."

She hung up.

* * *

Lizzie was his best friend. They had met the first day of uni after he had run into her and she had shouted at him with lots of words he didn't understand. But he offered to buy her coffee to make up for it, and she had accepted (He would later discover that the only way to quell a raging Lizzie was to give her coffee. She adored the stuff).Thus began a beautiful friendship of witty banter, new dictionaries, and coffee shops.

Lucas had to tell someone about what had happened in the graveyard. If he didn't, he was pretty sure he was going to go insane. It was already driving him crazy. The only person he could think to trust with this was Lizzie. He had no clue how he'd say any of this without being shipped to the madhouse, but he thought there was a chance that she might listen to him. Maybe. He only hoped that, were Liz to believe him, the Angel wouldn't find out he had betrayed her secrets to someone else. Something told him that she wouldn't hesitate to kill him were she to discover it.

_Oh._

On second thought, maybe he shouldn't tell Liz a thing and keep his vital organs intact.

He liked that idea a lot more.

By the time Lizzie knocked on his front door, he had no idea what he was going to do.

* * *

Lizzie settled into his rolling chair, balancing a plate of biscuits and a cup of coffee in her lap. She very much clashed with his drab, navy room with her wild curly red hair, brightly colored scarf, and mismatched clothes, and purple tights. She looked like some creature from a fairytale trapped in the normal, boring world. The first few weeks he knew her, he had thought she had looked insane, until she had uttered those two words: _art major_. Everything about her had suddenly made a lot more sense after that.

"Alright," she said, taking a huge bite from a biscuit. Her next words were muffled by the chocolate stuffed in her mouth. "Wha' were you goi' to tell m'?"

Lucas shifted nervously on his bed. "You first," he said. "How's the thesis coming?"

She glared at him and swallowed her mouthful dramatically. "Uh-uh," she said. "No way. You are _not_ redirecting this conversation."

He fidgeted. "You sure? Look, Liz, I don't even know if I still want to tell you. I don't know if I still _can_. I mean, for all I know, it could be dangerous. You may think I've gone crazy."

She continued her glare. "Yeah, not possible. Your little imbroglio isn't scaring me away. Spill. Now."

He flipped through the dictionary he had sitting on his bed. _Imbroglio – (n.) a complicated or difficult situation_.

"Listen," he tried to explain, "I invited you over here without thinking it through. It's just…I don't know how to explain this, and if it goes wrong I'm pretty sure I could die."

"Overdramatic much?" she said with a smirk.

"No."

She instantly became serious. "You haven't gotten involved in anything you shouldn't have, have you Lucas?"

"What, like organized crime or selling drugs?" he snorted. "No. No way."

"Ok, then, I don't see why you can't tell me. Love, I want to help you, but you've got to let me know what's wrong."

He was going to regret this so, so much.

He took a deep gulp of air and took the plunge. "Liz…you know the cemetery a few streets away from here?"

* * *

He told her everything. About talking to the statue at his mum's funeral, about seeing it move, about hearing it speak – everything.

And Lizzie didn't say one word the whole time.

She didn't look at him while he spoke, but he knew she was listening. She had her concentration face on, the one that scrunched up her nose while she thought. He regaled her with his conversations with the Angel, from that ridiculous _"Lucas Damian Richards" _to the Angel's laugh to the Angel's admittance of being lonely. He even omitted his rule of always trying to look cool in front of girls and admitted how unbelievably terrified he was of the whole thing. He also admitted how absolutely excited he was by it.

Finally, after his explanations of ancient space aliens were over, Liz looked up at him. He couldn't read her face at all.

And then she grinned.

And then she was laughing.

"Seriously?" she wheezed. "You asked her if she was an _exotic pet?"_

Still disbelieving of Lizzie's reaction, he cautioned, "Only after the more respectful 'mutant' and 'god'."

Lizzie guffawed, nearly falling off of her seat.

"You…" His mouth suddenly went dry. He licked his lips. "You believe me?"

She smiled at him. "Well, yeah!" she said. "No offense Lucas, but you are not nearly creative enough to make any of that up. Besides, I've seen the statue you're talking about. I noticed it at my granddad's burial. It completely creeped me out. Finding out that it's some kind of whangdoodle is believable."

"Whang – is that even a word?"

"Ok, I have to know. How did its voice sound? Was it more dulcet or susurrous?"

"Sus – what the hell does that even _mean?"_

"You know, I really don't think she's going to kill you. I mean, she's let you live for this long, hasn't she? We don't even know if she is a killer. She can't help looking so macabre; we really shouldn't assume that she'll just murder you if you upset her. You know, 'don't judge a book by its cover' and all that."

"I…I guess," he said. "But she does have a certain…ummm…something bad about her."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'resistentialism'," she offered. "There's a certain resistentialism about her."

"What – no, I'm done. I'm not even going to ask what that one means."

"You have the dictionary I bought you for Christmas, you uncouth slubberdegullion," she snapped. "Use it."

"Why are you so obnoxious?" he asked in wonderment.

"Because," was her response.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.

"Thank you," Lucas said, "for believing me."

She smiled at him, "No problem," was all she said.

Then she sighed, looking out of the tiny window beside his desk. "It is a really sad thought, you know. Living for that long and never speaking to anyone or knowing what you look like. Sad." She sighed again, then glanced at him. "I take it that I can't see her then?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. Maybe if she starts to trust me I can bring you by and introduce you, but it will probably take a while."

She nodded. "Understood," she said. "Just do me a favor, okay? Don't die. This is incredible and all, but please, don't be stupid and go and get yourself killed."

"I thought we had decided to not judge her as a killing machine."

"There is a difference between judgment and caution," she informed him. "I just don't want you to toe the line too much."

He gave her a small smile. "I won't," he promised.

She grinned. "Great," she said. She immediately popped up and began whizzing about the room, grabbing books off of his shelves and unloading her laptop from her bag.

"Now," she said. "Let's get started."

"Uhh…on what?" he asked.

"Well, you're going back to see her soon, right?" He nodded. "Okay then. We have work to do."

"What work?" he asked, flabbergasted.

"You told the thing you were going to try and find it a name," she said. "I'm going to help."

Before Lucas could do anything but open his mouth in shock, there was a knock at his bedroom door.

"Luuucaaass," Lottie called from the other side. "I want someone to play with!"

"Umm…"

Lizzie bounded over to the door and threw it wide open. "Hi, sweetheart!" she said cheerfully. She put on a glowing white grin. "We were just about to start trying to find a name for an Angel statue that may or may not be a horror movie come to life!" She exclaimed. "Wanna help?"

"Lizzie!"

She looked back at Lucas and stuck out her tongue.

He hated that girl.

Lottie's eyes were the size of dinner plates. Lucas wondered how much of that she had actually been able to process. "Uh-huh," she said. "I'm real good at names." She held up her stuffed dolphin Squirtles as evidence.

"Great!" Lizzie all but shouted. "Come on in!"

Lucas glared at her and she smiled right back. Lottie seemed a little dazed, but was quite excited to help her big brother and shuffled quickly into the room.

"Now Lottie," Lizzie said with mock seriousness. "I want you to make a list of every name you think fitting for a sinister, beautiful Angel statue. Can you do that?"

Lottie looked confused. "Umm…yesss…?"

"Wonderful! Here's a pencil and some paper. Go sit over there and write." Lottie accepted Lizzie's gifts and walked over to Lucas's bed, settling into the blankets.

"Now," Lizzie turned to him. "You go through your books and find some names. I'm going to Google some others. Let's go."

Not for the first time that evening, Lucas wondered just exactly what had he gotten himself into.

* * *

_The man tried to catch his little girl as she flew around the house. She laughed and spun and twirled, and with each flap of her wings he feared that she would be lost to him forever. Before he could stop her, she flew out the window, calling once again, "Papa! Come and fly with me!" That was the last time he ever saw his precious little girl._


	7. Teeth and Tales

**Hi again! Really quickly, I'd like to address something. I've had two reviewers who have expressed interest in the short stories in italics at the beginning and end of each chapter, asking if they were real stories or if they would somehow tie into the story later on. My answer:**

…**Er…No. Sorry.**

**Funny story about those. In chapter one, I put it in on a total whim; took me less than two minutes to write it and I thought, "Eh, why not?" After I posted it, I realized that I would need to do that for all the chapters now, since it wouldn't make much sense for one to have it and none of the others to. I make each one up myself; it only takes a minute or two to write the first part down. Then I write my chapter, and at the end I decide on the ending for my tiny little story. I'm so sorry to disappoint – they're not old myths or fairytales, and they have absolutely no impact on the actual story. Not important. I just write them for literary symmetry and for fun. They won't all tie in and be significant and have some great message. I quite literally make them up as I go along. That being said, if you don't like them, then hey, skip 'em. I don't mind, and it won't impact your understanding of the plot. If I have any readers out there that would be interested in coming up with an idea or a request for a story they'd want to see in this, then by all means, message me and let me know, and if I like it, I'll put it in!**

**Also, I do believe that our Angel will be getting her name in this chapter. I actually did write out a huge list for this in deciding what I'd name her. I'm a huge mythology and history fan, and I compiled a list with names that I thought might be good that I already knew, as well as ones that I did more research on. That being said, it's rather large, and not all will be mentioned in this chapter – if you want to see the full list, please let me know and I'll message it to you! I'd be happy to do it!**

**Sorry for the long message. I just wanted to clear up any confusion or curiosity. Please don't forget to review this chapter to let me know what you think! Thanks!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Once upon a time, long ago, there was a desert in this world where the air was thick with mystery, intrigue, and magic. Under a sky that stretched as far as the eye could see, beautiful women flashed their gold jewelry and their fine silks; meats roasted on spits over roaring fires that spat purple and blue sparks; magicians turned ribbons into snakes and sand into rubies; vendors hawked their wares, offering musical talent in exchange for dreams, new stories for sets of crocodile teeth, and incomparable beauty for a year's worth of tears. Amongst these exotic people lived a simple storyteller, who sat within his humble tent each day, quietly chanting haunting tales of angels, demons, and paradises to any passersby who would listen._

* * *

Lucas and Lizzie stayed up well into the night. After Lizzie called their name search to an end, she begged Lucas to tell her of the events with the Angel again and again and again. She picked apart each word and movement, analyzing and re-analyzing their exact meaning. Lucas was glad she was so into it, but by the time she left, past midnight, he was ready to strangle her.

It had been a productive evening. Liz had said that a normal name just simply wouldn't do – they had to go search for the weird ones. He was in charge of flipping through his books and finding names from literature. When your dad was a Lit professor at the University down the street, you tended to have a lot of books lying around, and a fair amount of them had some useable names. Liz used the internet to look up the names of angels in scripture, goddesses from mythology, Egyptian queens. By the time they were finished, they had an impressive list, with Lottie's simple contributions tacked on at the end.

Lucas was grateful for everything Liz had done. He really was. He had been pretty sure that he had been going insane, and having someone verify that you were just as sane as them was kind of encouraging.

Except it was Liz, who happened to be slightly demented. So, a little less encouraging, but bracing nonetheless.

Liz had laughed at his antics with the Angel. She had assured him many times over that this little exertion wasn't going to kill him. She had not only accepted his tale, but had been interested in it. She had asked for details. She had thrown herself into this lunatic project with great gusto. She had taken his coat and flown about the room flapping the oversized arms, screaming, _"I'm the Angel and I am your DOOM." _She had eaten all of his biscuits and depleted his stock of chocolate milk.

She had also been unbelievably obnoxious, but he loved her anyway.

It was nice to have such a good friend.

While she had been at his house, he had felt pretty calm about the whole ordeal. It was going to be alright. He could handle it. Nothing bad was going to come out of this at all.

As soon as Lizzie had stepped out the door, all of that serenity and assuredness flew out the window.

_What was he thinking?_

He was about to entertain some alien who had the power to crush him like a bug – a _creepy_ angel who had the power to crush him like a bug. He was about to walk right into her waiting hands, effectively springing a trap on himself. If there was a trap. For all he knew, she could be some nice old …thing…that just wanted company.

Yeah.

He decided to delude himself into thinking that.

It was better than the alternative, anyway.

But the problem was, no matter how unreal and unbelievably scary the situation was, he was completely and totally enthralled by it. It was the single most amazing thing that had ever happened to him – maybe to _anyone_. By some miracle, he had seen stone come to life and heard it speak. Even if the experience did end up killing him, he wasn't sure that he cared. It was almost worth it to have seen everything that he had been allowed to.

So, with that thought firmly in mind, he once again resolved to return to the graveyard tomorrow to visit the lonely angel, and, perhaps, to not get killed in the process. He was pretty sure he would lose his nerve several more times before the hour of visitation arrived, but, for the moment, his resolution was keeping him calm – and keeping any and all panic attacks at bay was all he was asking for.

He just hoped it could last.

* * *

The next morning dawned gray and thick with fog. Staring out his bedroom window, Lucas tried to comfort himself with the thought that, even though the dense mist would hide the Angel's movements were she to attack him, it would hopefully also hide him as he ran away.

He didn't buy it for a second, but he appreciated his own effort, as pathetic as it was.

It was a Saturday, so he didn't have any classes. No distractions to speak of, and no excuses to avoid the cemetery. Lottie was going to a friend's, and his dad was doing some research outside of the house. He had nothing to even pretend to clean, and no papers were due until near the end of the week. He half-heartedly made his bed and buttered some toast, moving as slowly as he could. Eventually, he couldn't put it off any longer – he had to go, or he was going to end up standing in the kitchen like an idiot, staring at the door and trembling for hours. God, he was glad Liz wasn't there to see him – he was acting like a girl. A twat. And he, Lucas Richards, was certainly neither of those things.

He steeled himself, gave a final push, and walked to the door, pulling on his coat and backpack as he went. As he stepped outside into the cold air that had been warm just days ago, the phone in his pocket buzzed. It was Lizzie.

_**You can do it! Look, I know it's a hellacious situation, but you can get through this. I'll be rooting for you the whole time. Call me when she's chosen one of my fabulous names, okay?**_

He smiled and typed his reply.

**How do you know she won't choose one of my names? Or Lottie's?**

He could practically hear her snort through the screen.

_**Please. One of your plain, boring things over one of my exotic, selcouth choices that call to mind pagan worshippings of death, stars, and nighttime? Rethink about what you just said and apologize profusely.**_

**I am sorry, oh goddess of color and sock puppets. I shall burn you an offering of sweets and incense to make up for my misdeed. **

_**Yeah, yeah. You had better be kneeling and groveling next time I see you.**_

**But of course. **

He snapped his phone shut and continued to walk to the cemetery. He couldn't focus on Liz at the moment. All he could think about was the Angel.

The fog was even thicker in the cemetery. It created a nearly opaque curtain in front of him, and he tripped over four different headstones. After he picked himself up from the last little fall, cursing quietly, he looked up. The Angel was a few feet away, and she was looking straight at him.

Great.

She made for an eerie scene. Her body rose out of the mist, half shrouded in gray wisps that clung to her like ghosts. The shadows were more pronounced both on and around her, making everything darker and more severe. With the sun more hidden than it had ever been on any of his visits, she seemed less and less angel-like and a much more dangerous and gloomy. She looked like something that parents would tell their children stories about at night – something not to be trifled with. Her blank eyes only did favor to the effect, adding a sense of inhumanity to her figure.

In short, it was all Lucas could do to not faint on the spot.

After a few minutes of mutual staring, he approached shakily and with trepidation. He kept his eyes down, not wanting to look at her again. Every inch of his body was screaming at him to flee, cry, stop, _something_. But, like the complete idiot he was, he didn't listen, because darn it – the woman didn't have a name and he was not going to let her live her life without one. It was sad, and kind of heartbreaking, and just wrong. So, ignoring his very sensible instincts, he settled on a spot in the grass several feet from his mum's grave.

_Hey, mum, _he greeted in his head. _Don't worry about me – just trying to make an angel alien happy is all. I'll try not to die._

For some reason, he didn't think that his poor mother would have been very reassured.

"_Hello, Lucas," _the Angel greeted. He shivered. It was so _freaky_ when she spoke. It made his skin crawl a bit.

"Hello, Miss Angel," he replied, finally looking up at her. He didn't even flinch when he saw that she was now seated instead of standing. Progress, he supposed.

She said nothing in reply. He fidgeted awkwardly, trying to ignore her stare. The shadows hid half her face at her new seated angle. He decided that he didn't really like it.

"So," he said, clearing his throat. "Umm…I did that thing that I promised."

"_Oh?"_ She sounded a bit confused. _"What thing was that?"_

_Seriously? _She didn't remember? Did he do all of that work for nothing?

'Um…the name thing…?" he cautiously tested.

"_Ah." _He was pretty sure that if she hadn't been frozen to stone, she would have blinked and looked vaguely surprised. Could Angels even blink? _"I did not think that results would be presented so soon."_

'Yeah, well, you thought wrong," he said. He pulled of his backpack and unzipped it. He dug around for the right papers. "I enlisted some help, so it got done a lot faster than – "

"_You did what?"_ she clipped. Her voice was quiet and icy. He froze in his paper search as his brain spluttered and died out.

"Um, I – "

"_You – did – what – exactly?"_

Why had he said that? Why? Was he going to die now? His heart did a little spasm, and the only thought he seemed able to produce was _Don't die, don't die, don't die, no dying, no dying, nodyingnodyingnodyingnodying…_

"_Lucas," _she hissed. _"Please, do tell me that I will not be forced to do anything unfortunate to you."_

Oh God. "N-no, p-pleas-se, you w-won't – "

"_Oh, I don't want to, but if you have revealed me, I may not have a choice. As much as I enjoy your company, my hatred for curious visitors supersedes that." _

"Um," His voice was very small. "Do y-you – um – do _unfortunate things_ a lot?"

"_Do I kill often, you mean to ask?"_

His voice wouldn't come out as anything more than a squeak, so he just looked down and nodded. Why had he come to this awful place again?

She was quiet for a few seconds, long enough to prompt him to look up at her face again. He let out a yelp.

She was smiling. It was the first smile she had ever given that showed her teeth. And her teeth were _pointed._ He had never seen anything so terrifying or so wicked in his life. _"I will allow you to make your own deductions on that."_

_Shite._

He.

Was.

Going.

To.

Freaking.

Die.

He didn't even care that he was about to cry. She had shark teeth, she was angry, and he was a dead man walking.

His voice was shaking harder than he knew was possible, but he tried again. "N-no, p-pleas-se, I o-only t-told my b-best friend-d L-liz-z and-d sh-she has-s alread-dy s-seen y-you and-d doesn't-t ev-ver want t-to c-come n-near you. I j-just needed he-help and-d her names are b-better th-than mine and-d sh-she's s-so weir-weird th-that no o-one w-would ev-ver li-listen t-to her but-t she wou-wouldn't-t s-say anything-g and I-I needed h-her s-so b-badly.

"_And why would you need her?"_ the Angel spat.

"Be-because I was-s sc-scared and-d alone and-d I-I thought I was-s g-going cra-crazy and I _needed her._"

She said nothing, and he continued desparately.

"P-please believ-ve m-me. Y-you're kind-d of a lot-t to t-take in and-d I was s-so, so scared-d and I wanted-d to keep-p coming-g here b-but I needed s-someone to t-tell me it-t was g-going to be al-alright and …she would-d never, ever come n-near you, I s-swear."

The Angel was silent. He stared hard at the ground, trying very, very hard to not think about her teeth.

"_I am sorry, Lucas."_

Sh –

"_I did not think of how this situation was affecting you. I am afraid that my reaction was unfair and too harsh. I promise to you now, I shall not kill you."_

What?

Great! But what?

She continued. _"Obviously you were frightened. Why would you not be when every being in the cosm – "_ She paused. _"No. That is a tale for another day. I apologize to you, Lucas Damien Richards, for my unforgiveable behavior. I shall not dispose of you, nor shall I intentionally frighten or threaten you again. After all you are doing for me, it would be unfair for me to take advantage of that."_

He was so relieved he could hardly think straight. _She wasn't going to kill him_. He was going to live! He risked peeking at her face, and she was no longer smiling with those awful teeth. He let out a giddy laugh, collapsing onto the grass.

He conveniently ignored the fact that she had teeth perfect for shredding flesh and that she had practically admitted to being a serial killer. He couldn't feel fear and relief at once, and at the moment, the relief was winning out. He would consider the implications of the terrifying new facts he'd learned later – probably against his will in his dark bedroom at night or something, because that was how these things usually worked. But at the moment, he wasn't being slaughtered, and that was good enough for him.

"Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

The Angel seemed to believe that she was granting him a great favor, because she haughtily replied, _"I accept your thanks for my good grace."_ Sparing his life was a big deal? How absolutely petrifying.

But, he couldn't focus on that now, or he might give himself a heart attack.

Instead, he drew himself up to a sitting position again after several minutes of silence and rummaged through his backpack, his hands only marginally shaking. "Here," he said. "Liz and I made a list of names. Want to have a look?"

He held out the sheets of paper to her, and looked away so that she could grab them. He kept his eyes down as she skimmed the names. It was so weird to hear the pages flipping and to know that a statue was turning them. So weird.

While she perused, he spoke. "Yeah, each name has a story behind it. It was Liz's idea, actually, to find names that might mean something other than just going through some baby naming website. I was in charge of looking through books and picking out character's names, and she looked up stuff from mythology and theology and history and who knows what else. So, you want to know a story or anything, you just ask."

The Angel said nothing, continuing to flip through the list. While she looked, he dug through his backpack and pulled out a notebook full of last night's notes – old stories recorded in bullet points on crisp, lined paper.

"_I do not like any names on the Literature list," _she said eventually.

"What?" he snapped. "Seriously? Those were all the ones I found!"

"_Yes," _she said evenly. _"And I did not like any of them."_

"But you don't even know the stories behind them," he argued.

"_But I do not like the sound of them, and thus would not wish to be called such."_

He groaned. "Liz was right. She _knew_ you'd like hers better."

"_Your 'Liz' is much wiser and much more creative than you, I'm afraid."_

He sighed, not even fighting it. "Yeah," he agreed.

"_I would like to know the difference between your mythologies. Why are they separate?" _she asked. He supposed Liz must have separated the different kinds on the list. That made things easier.

"Um, well, one kind is from the country of Greece, one is from Egypt, and one's from Norway."

"_And these are cities?"_

"Uh, no. More like countries. Each one has different stories and gods and goddesses to explain natural events and stuff, like earthquakes and sunrises and death."

She sniffed. _"How disorganized. Most planets have the same myths all over their world. Nothing separate like this."_

'Yeah, well, welcome to Earth, where no one works together, even if it kills them. And it's not that bad – each set of stories reflects the culture of the countries. It's kind of fascinating, once you get into it," he said.

"_Fine,"_ she said. _"Then please tell me the stories for each name."_

"Seriously?"

"_It shall be my name, and I wish to be certain. Please, share these tales with me."_

As it turned out, the Angel was pretty easy to entertain. She claimed that she adored new stories and listened in rapt attention to each one he read off the page. He started with the Egyptian stuff, going into Isis and Ammut and Seshat. She was fascinated by the idea that their gods were part animal, part human, and she loved the idea of mummification. He tried not to shudder at that. She also really liked the Egyptians idea of death – the whole journey and judgment process and everything, especially the part about the unworthy hearts getting eaten after being weighed against a feather.

"Okay, you like the Egyptian death process," he said. "How about Nephthys?" Nephthys was one of the goddesses who guarded the dead. Her domain was night, and she was usually depicted as a bird of prey, which he thought fit the Angel pretty well. And the Angel had guarded his mother, the dead, like Nephthys, although he highly doubted she had led his mum through the afterlife.

"_I like her," _the Angel decided. _"I shall consider her."_

Lucas circled the name and moved on to Norse mythology.

The Angel did not like Norse as much, although she took particular delight in Loki's schemes and in Odin's ravens. He skimmed the stories, as he was pretty sure that she wasn't interested in being named after a goddess of fertility, as a lot of them were. Wasn't one enough? Why did there have to be, like, four?

The only one that the Angel really liked from there was Elli. Elli was the personification of old age who had once wrestled with Thor. The Angel claimed that she was older than dust – why not be named after old age itself?

He circled the name and moved on to Greek mythology –

Which was so freaking huge that he didn't even know where to start.

He thought for a moment, then narrowed the list down. So far, the Angel hadn't been interested in anyone who was exceptionally beautiful or who represented flowers or baby lambs or anything happy and innocent like that. She liked the old, crippled, evil, and dark.

Yay.

So he only went towards those when regaling her with Grecian tales. She seemed to really appreciate it. She cheered for Hecate when she turned men into pigs; she favored Medusa over the heroes; she smiled at Angelos's turn to the Underworld.

He wondered if she preferred the monstrous characters of the stories because she knew that she was a bit monstrous herself. Maybe she related to them or something.

She liked several stories from Greece. She liked the story, short as it was, of Asteria, the Titan of nocturnal oracles (whatever that meant), falling stars, and necromancy. She adored Nyx, the goddess of Night, and the mother of lots of other nasty things. She sighed at Persephone's story – he sure hoped that she wasn't wishing for the god of the Underworld to sweep her away too. Maybe she just thought it was tragic. She also sighed and 'ooh'-ed at Selene's story, the goddess of the moon and ruler of the night, with her lover and her …night-ish stuff. But hey, at least the last two were a bit lighter than the others.

He circled all four of the names there and moved on to theological angel names.

There was Ariel, and angel who seemed to mostly be associated with dust and destruction and fire. He was having a hard time reconciling this new image with the red-headed singing mermaid in his head. Then there was Leilah, one of the only female angels mentioned anywhere, whose name meant 'night'. How convenient, right?

The Angel's choice in names was beginning to concern him a bit.

But, despite her disturbing excitement for the stories with darker stuff, Lucas was kind of enjoying himself. She seemed happier, a bit more freed and relaxed, while listening to the stories, and even though she had threatened to kill him only a few hours before, he was sort of having fun with her. At least, she kept making him laugh with her deep passion for the more somber stories, and she was thoroughly confused as to why he found her so amusing. But she just…_was. _He told himself to stop having fun with the pointy-toothed Angel. In typical Lucas fashion, he didn't listen to his common sense.

"_Lucas?" _the Angel asked eventually. _"You have more than one name. May I have more than one as well?"_

"I…I don't see why not," he replied. "But we need to decide your last name, which will be your family name, so that if you ever have more…little Angels, they take that name too. Then you could decide your first name, and middle name, if you wanted one….I suppose." Really, Lucas had no clue, but that seemed to be the way things were meant to go.

'_My last name…shall be Nyx," _she said quietly. "_I shall hail from the family of night. Her children were old age, death, pain, and destruction; I hail from such lines as this, and would be proud to call her my mother."_

"…Ah," Lucas said, not quite sure what to say to that. It was a touching gesture, but he really didn't want to be on the receiving end of the lines the Angel hailed from.

"_My first name," _she continued, _"Shall be Asteria. She was of the stars and of those of the dark. She spurned a selfish love and became an island that all loved her for. To be loved such as that is a great hope of mine."_

Lucas didn't say anything to that. He had a feeling she was musing more to herself than him at this point.

"_And my 'middle name' as you so called it…shall be Nephthys. She can fly where I cannot, to the land of the dead." _She sounded so melancholy at this point that Lucas was beginning to feel awkward.

He coughed uncomfortably. "Yes, well…Asteria Nephthys Nyx. That's…quite the eccentric mix. It has a nice ring to it though."

The Angel – _Asteria – _turned to him. _"Thank you, Lucas Damian Richards," _she said. _"You have given me a great gift. It shall not be forgotten."_ And then she smiled, but the teeth weren't scary anymore (He was totally lying; they were still kind of scary – but they weren't as bad as before). The smile seemed sincere.

"No problem, Asteria," he replied. He stood up and turned to leave the cemetery. "No one should be without a name."

* * *

_Eventually, the old storyteller fell into madness, raving that the angels and demons had visited him. They had demanded his soul, and he had refused. And thus he was struck with a fever, and lived the rest of his days moaning and muttering about the angels and demons – the paradises were no longer anywhere to be found in his tales._


End file.
